"soybean" poems
Donuts, o donuts,
Wheat Flour Enriched
Soybean,
Palm and Cottonseed Oil Hydrogenated
Vegetable Oil Partially Hydrogenated
Cocoa Processed with Alkali,
Sodium Acid Pyrophosphate
Sodium Aluminum Phosphate
Aluminum Sulfate
Salt, Dextrose, Soy Lecithin,
Guar Gum, Cellulose Gum, Tapioca Dextrin,
Corn Dextrins, Mono Diglycerides,
Citric Acid, Enzymes,
Natural & Artificial colors & flavors
Sorbic Acid and Sodium Propionate
and Potassium Sorbate
To Retain Freshness:
Eat 'em up yum.
Mar 30, 2012
Mar 30, 2012 at 2:08 PM UTC
old soybean crop dry & brown
---empty rustcap 12 shot bottle canadian club premium
---broken ("good quality")
wooden blinds
crowfeathers.
muddy packs of darts:
ménage (4)
peter jackson (2)
next (1)
number seven blacks (3)
john player (2)
shreds---plastic . . . bags of earth
all manner cardboard thinlike
drinkcups (tim horton's mostly)
******
child's wristwatch (..plastic)
frog in a cardboard box
dozen pair new (white) socks? still bagged---
Oct 11, 2011
Oct 11, 2011 at 11:01 PM UTC
You can't safely have a cigarette outside of the bus terminal
without a couple of folk asking for one.
You can't safely have a cigarette in general.
But, if five of them have to last you a night and a sunrise,
you don't really mind turning down a few nameless hands.
Some of the bus drivers like to talk about football, weather;
others complain about management or the patrons;
a few don't say much at all, avoiding sympathy.
They're probably the smart ones.
They don't want to learn the sad stories in between stops.
I usually like to just sit in the back and ride out the best bumps.
The handrails jiggle and crash with every pothole.
-
The men who work at the metal scrap yard
usually get on in front of Debbie's Diner on 22nd street.
Bundled up for warmth and firm of face, they only speak to each other.
Small talk about who almost missed the bus, broken crane joints,
and who moved the most barrels of copper piping fill the blocks.
They tend to pick on the guy who runs the aluminum can crusher;
big guy, they call him "Boose" and he couldn't be much older than I am.
His hands and lips are dry and cracked from exposure,
but his face still shows ember of teenage years, though jilted.
There is a bar that serves three-dollar chili across the street, spicy.
The workers go there when they miss the first bus, have a beer,
down a bowl of boiling chili, and catch the return bus in better moods.
-
The railroads on Brush College road tend to hold up traffic.
The ADM plant doesn't really mind if a few twenty-something mothers
are late to their practical nursing and phlebotomy classes,
but they voice their complaints out of a cracked window to the side
of a ten story soybean silo nonetheless; steaming ears and all.
I stare at the graffiti on the laggard train cars, each unique
in color, quality, style, and message; the industrial Louvre.
These waits sometimes last a half hour or more.
In the days before Pell grant rewards come in,
when students still feel like they're working toward tangible cash,
the seats are all packed with heavy breathers.
The air becomes thick with community college carbon coughs.
Jan 18, 2015
Jan 18, 2015 at 9:23 PM UTC
I made it so far
But then I got to the beach and craved
Insanity.
From there to the end
My natural getting-home-from-work reaction was to
Crack open a beer
I think I felt like at that point
The fumes knew me better than you did,
And for them at least I didn’t have to
Explain myself.
I ****** up enough meals that I gave the cooking duties
To you.
Maybe if you pay attention to the stove you won’t look at my face not looking at you
Not knowing what to do,
How many times I avoided eye contact
Always trying to find something to point out
So it looked like I at least had some sort of reason
Just covering up the treason
That I probably should’ve felt bad for.
Feeling bad and feeling paranoid
Are not the same thing
And I only felt one of the two.
Flat beer
Old wine
Lukewarm liquor
I never knew a sink full of ***** dishes could spark such a fire
Scars left from burns can still feel phantom warmth.
The smell of burning butter
Not even a diet change could fix what was going wrong
A suggestion made for “health reasons”
You’ll never know what I was patching up.
I never knew how much hope could be contained
In eight ounces of soybean mush.
Now I’m back to where I was before
Only sometimes self-medicating to the point of remembering what it’s like
To not remember
But never sad to remember
What it’s like to wake up next to her.
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 11:49 PM UTC
.
In a deflationary period, prices will drop, corporate profits will dry up, wages will shrink, and all of this will reinforce the conditions of recessions. This happens for two reasons.
The first is that deflation keeps money on the sidelines as consumers wait for prices to fall further. This causes demand to shrink.
Deflation also adds to the real value of debt. This makes consumers and businesses less likely to take out loans and make big purchases to grow the U.S.'s consumption-driven economy.
And deflation runs counter to the goals of most of the world's central banks. Most notably, the U.S. Federal Reserve.
"Central bankers want inflation so they can pay back inflated debt in cheaper dollars," said Money Morning Capital Wave Strategist Shah Gilani.
But as we start 2015, deflation has arrived. Just check out these four deflation indicator
1. Falling crude oil prices
2. Falling commodity prices
Heating oil futures are down 47%.
Natural gas futures are down 36%.
Copper futures are down 24%.
Unleaded gas is down 23%.
Soybean oil is down 15%.
Wheat futures are down 11%.
Corn futures are down 8%.
The other two I read somewhere but they were cut off in this article. I will have to look.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 1:08 AM UTC
Sugar frosted sorghum fields , icing on divinity branch , conjures
a few borrowed phrases scrambled in a Croaker sack . At latitude with
a blue tick coonhound sneaking a peek through the brambles that twist through the hedgerows at a meek , timid mink with a playful eye on morning snow ..
Curious Crow concerned with which way the wind blows , Eastern gray's curious as to why their shadows grow , chasing one another without a care at all , relax outside their sweet gum abode ..
Milkers in the onion field led to proper pasture ..Cowbells break the chilly silence , Red rooster performs willy-nilly atop the pole barn .. Guineas spinning yarns about the other end of the farm , lively geese turning heads for miles around ..
******* jack beagles bray for the edge of the soybean field with no desire for corncake and hot cereal ..
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 1:57 PM UTC
Counting boxcars as they hurdle down the tracks , one for every memory I can summon , one for every penny I've placed at this crossing for good luck ..
A copper token to insure good fortune , the wheels of a child's imagination set into motion ..
Walking the railway , dreaming of life as a " Hobo " , with my cane over my shoulder and a bag of apples tied to one end ...
Racing home at Dusk with the last glimmer of daylight at my feet , the five thirty special thunders through this small town again ..
Bound for points South , Montgomery or Mobile , breaking the quiet of night marching through corn , soybean and cotton field ...
The deafening sound of order and morning routine in sleepy Southern villages , a wake -up call for little boys with skinned up knees , ball caps and ***** britches ...
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 1:14 PM UTC
At the end of the road is the road...
I used to live in a town,
but all that remains
is empty storefronts
and peopleless porches,
hardly a community.
Strangers on the streets
do not know their
neighbors and never will.
The woods and creek banks
where I hunted pheasants
and fished for trout
are overgrown now
with McMansions full
of bloated consumers.
All the orchards grow
houses instead of fruit.
The only country left is
corn and soybean fields,
slathered in pesticides,
about as natural as ******
Now it is two towns,
the one remembered,
and the one that is.
I live in the latter,
but prefer the former.
I would leave, but
six years ago I fell
into a man-trap and
haven’t figured out
how to escape yet.
Not that it much matters.
We all end up exactly
where we are.
Feb 6, 2017
Feb 6, 2017 at 8:45 AM UTC
*The tawny autumn pastures of Whitehouse
Home of Ozias , the graves of my kin
Miller's Millstone and the Selfridge banks
of Cotton Indian , Roseberry field , Wilson
Chicks Farm , Camp creek and Berry Hill ...
Candy beside Rabbit Rock , bicycles along Decatur
Road , locks of honeysuckle , broomsage , parcels
of soybean and sorghum , sweetcorn and home gardens ..
Fiddlers *** along South rivers sandy banks and islands
Yellow Perch , smallmouth , rock bass and calico*
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 9:31 AM UTC
*Adhesive memories with Sisyphean love
Where pasture , paddock and woodland divide
Where hickory trees have been carved with-
Old Timer pocket knives
Afternoon walks through soybean , corn and
sorghum , where the sound and colors of dusk are like
no other* ..
Nov 25, 2016
Nov 25, 2016 at 12:58 PM UTC